Miss Misunderstood
by ILoveNeil
Summary: The lovable Sherlock, who wants to transition into a female, is struggling in college. Molly tries to help her dear friend, but ends up in mortal danger after Sherlock meets John.


I swept a cotton swab under my lashes to remove any lingering liner. It caused me physical pain to wipe away the perfectly winged blackness that gave definition to my plain blue eyes; the lilac gloss that brought sparkle to my thin lips; the powder foundation that faded my oval birthmarks. Other men underestimate the skill it takes to apply make-up, the precision and patience it takes to find what works well and what requires further maintenance. The hands I once lugged a football with had to reconfigure themselves to figure out how to steady a nail polish wand.

I could see Molly reflected in the mirror next to me. Her self-made curls looked tight next to my large, dark rolls of hair.

"I'll never understand how you do this every time he comes to visit," she said. She contorted her face, her eyebrows lowering—giving me the look she always gave when she wanted to chastise me. But she stopped commenting on my father when she realized what it did to me. As my best friend, I needed her to stray from touchy topics. I dealt with enough pain when she wasn't around. When she was with me, I'd prefer to enjoy the happiness while it lasted.

I dug my fingers against my scalp, and lifted, shifting my eyes toward her. "And I'll never understand how you slept with Jim."

Her jaw unlatched, revealing a blob of green gum stuck to her tongue. She snatched my wig, pretending to spit the wad into it, but ultimately cradled it like a child. She loved the idea of artificial hair, even though she hated that I always wore the same one. She thought I should spice it up by looking like Elizabeth Taylor one day and Taylor Swift the next. However, I preferred to use one look to appear as 'normal' as possible. No one on campus knew about my buzz cut head or what hung beneath my skirts. As far as they were concerned, I was just like any other girl—except, maybe a little more fashionable.

Once I swapped my wedges for sneakers and crop top for a jersey, Molly's head shook. "I almost forgot you're hot as a guy, too. I don't even get to be pretty in one gender, you greedy guss."

Half of my mouth raised into a smile. She always complained about her weight, because she had thick thighs and curvy waist, but it looked good on her. The beige romper hugging her chest made her appear even sexier than usual. I bought it for her, after getting sick of seeing her hide herself under baggy sweatpants and hoodies. She rocked her genes when she found the right outfit.

Before I could open my mouth to take credit for her blossoming beauty, a knock landed on the door. "That would be him," I said, and Molly cursed. She had planned on leaving before my father arrived, but underestimated how long it would take to masculinize me.

"What if he checks your closet, sees the dresses?" she asked. "Or opens the medicine cabinet and sees all this make-up?"

I deepened my voice so it sounded unrealistically low. "Sorry, pop. Chicks are always popping in and out of here. They leave their stuff, and who am I to throw it out? It gives them reason to come back for seconds."

I winked, and she laughed, but the amplifying knocks muffled the sound. Making an effort to slouch, I left the bathroom and headed toward the entrance. Time for the real act.

"Look at those bones," my dad said after I swung open the door. "You too poor to afford a meal, Sherlock? You know I'll send you more money if you need it. And maybe a set of weights…"

I curled a hand behind my head to scratch it, trying to flex the small muscles I still had. Dad looked mighty with a suit jacket slung over his massive shoulders, and the sleeves of his button down shirt rolled up his veiny forearm.

"It's eighty degrees," I said as he walked past me to plop down on my unmade bed. "What are you wearing?"

"I need to look sharp for your new brothers. First impressions are everything."

"My what?"

"Beta Delta Phi. My old fraternity. They respect lineage. I was a member, so you're a shoo-in as long as you pass initiation. We're going to go down to the house today."

My dad received the honor of prom king in high school and went on to join the most prestigious frat in the state. When he urged me to attend his old college, I complied. But when he reminisced about his old frat, I pretended to be interested, pretended that the stories sounded impressive instead of humiliating, pretended that I'd join as soon as I adjusted to college life. I thought I could lie about it, trick him into believing that I got in. But if he planned on parading me down there, it would never work.

Molly slunk out of the bathroom, looking worried. "Hi, I'm Molly," she said, giving a half-hearted wave to my father. "I overheard the whole… I don't know if Sherlock really has enough time for that. The workload is heavy, you know. It gets worse every year. There's not much time for fun when—"

"I can handle it," I said. The squint of my eyes told her the rest: _My father is my problem, not yours._

Her eyelashes fluttered, and she cleared her throat. "Okay, then. Well, say hi to Jim for me."

She sped out the door, but made a point to close it gingerly. It upset me more than if she would have slammed it, released all that anger and disappointment she had over my act. Since childhood, kids are told to be themselves by adults who are covering up their true self. Everyone hides pieces of their personality, only allowing it to be seen when convenient. Molly did it too, just not on such a big scale. She didn't understand, because she refused to understand.

"Got a girlfriend already, huh?" dad asked, his pride making his teeth show through his smile.

"Nothing serious."

He patted my back with his free hand. "Keep it that way, eh? Lots of hot sorority girls out there. Now let's get going, the house is a little ways away."

We left the dorm, and hopped into the shining pickup truck he left running in the parking lot. As a kid, he always had a convertible, but he traded it in for something more durable after mom died. Plus, when I left for college, he replaced me with a chocolate lab that loved sitting in the bed of the truck with his tongue flopping in the breeze.

"How're classes?" he asked, and we engaged in basic chatter as he maneuvered down cracked streets. When we covered all of the basics: school, work, and girls, we rested in silence.

An air freshener in the shape of a football dangled from the rearview mirror, and an emerald necklace hung over it. Mom wore the heart shaped gem everywhere she went, but when they found her body, the chain had snapped and fallen onto the road. After she crashed, the engine exploded, charring her face until it was unrecognizable, but somehow the necklace skidded out of harm's reach.

I was still staring at it when the car slowed to a stop. As Dad removed his key, he said, "Sometimes, the sun catches it and makes a glare. Won't take it down, though." He sniffed. "Come on."

We walked up to a house with ghost white pillars reaching up to a roof with oversized Greek letters. A wide lawn had beer bottle caps scattered across it, but was otherwise spotless. Dad knocked on the door, using a special rhythm of three knocks, a pause, two knocks, another pause, and one final knock.

Almost instantly, Jim answered the door, shirtless with two girls in bikinis hanging off of him. He scoffed at me, but straightened up when he saw my father. "Are you alumni?" he asked.

"I'm Gregory Holmes, graduate of 1993." He nodded toward me. "My son, Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock?" he repeated slowly, looking me over. "Any relation to Sherrie? You look like her."

I forced my face to remain blank, despite the compliment to my feminine persona. "No," I said. "But I know the chick you mean. She's hot."

He agreed with a nod, then stepped aside to let us into a massive entryway with a spiral staircase in the center. Rooms branched off of every wall, but the doors stayed closed.

Jim's attention oscillated back toward my father, asking him questions about his experience in the brotherhood. I zoned out, paying more attention to the man's lips than the words spitting out of them.

The night Molly hooked up with him, she was drunk off of tequila shots. Even though Jim was the most popular guy on campus, she'd never settle for someone so stuck up while sober. Yeah, he had muscled arms, abs, and a nice ass, but he screwed everyone. As soon as Molly rolled out of his bed, she rolled up to a convenience store to buy an "At Home STD Test." Luckily, she failed it.

When I noticed Jim's red eyes looking back at me, I started to pay attention again. He was saying, "You'll be our personal errand boy along with our other pledges. That means you do what we say when we say. We'll officially start tomorrow, but to prove that you're serious about joining, your first task is to kiss—" He turned toward the staircase to yell, "Anderson, get down here."

Another pledge, with thick eyebrows and a thick stomach, hopped down the stairs. A rope secured both of his hands behind his back and another tied his ankles together. I expected him to tumble down, smash his head on the railing, and break an arm, but he navigated well. He must've done it before.

My father's face stayed rigid, so I asked, "You get that they want me to kiss a dude, right?"

He shrugged, and for a moment I thought he'd be okay with it all. That even if I had to hide my feminine side, that he'd understand my attraction to men. That he was far more accepting than I'd realized. But then he said, "Hazing is meant to humiliate you. I had to kiss a guy before. One of my friends, in fact. It was disgusting, but you have to get through some rough stuff to be a part of the brotherhood. It'll be over before you know it."

When Anderson reached the bottom unharmed, Jim shoved him toward me and he toppled over. I bent over to heave him up, but the almighty leader said, "No. Keep him down there. Straddle him. It'll be hotter."

The girls on his arm giggled. Anderson puckered his lips. Dad turned his head.

I placed a foot on either side of his chest, crouched down, and rested on my knees. Kissing boys never failed to bring me joy, but I had a special selection process. Anderson had every physical factor I tried to avoid in a man. A beard swung down his chin, piercings peppered his ears, his eyebrows molded together. Gay or not, the kiss would be a challenge.

My lips skimmed over his, but the small exchange gave me a large taste of alcohol. The smell of gin collided with his woodsy cologne, making my nose shrivel.

Jim laughed, but it sounded like a bark. "You're not getting up until I see some tongue."

Shutting my eyes, I pushed my lips against Anderson's and thrust my tongue into his mouth. The alcohol aftertaste actually helped make the situation bearable, so once I got used to the scratchy hair popping out of his face, the kiss wasn't bad. It lasted about five minutes, until Jim yanked my shirt collar to stop it.

"Better get used to it," he said. "You're just getting started." He walked away, but called over his shoulder. "Be back here at midnight tomorrow."

I looked at my dad, expecting him to congratulate me. However, he was talking to one of the frat boys dripping water through the hall. Everyone wore bathing suits, and some had inflatable tubes sticking to their wide hips, which meant a pool was nearby. One of the perks of Greek life.

I stood alone, picking at a tiny patch of nail polish that I missed removing, until a blonde approached me. Dimples popped onto his cheeks when he smiled, and his strong hand shook my fragile one. I would've gotten hard if Jim made him my kissing partner.

"I hate the whole pledging process," he said, rolling his bright green eyes. "They made me do it back when I joined, but I think it's bullshit." He paused. "I'm John."

"Sherlock."

"They usually pair pledges up with existing members to be their lackeys. Ask for me when you come back. If I'm around, I'll give you a break."

"Why?"

His bare shoulders raised. Tattoos curled around them and onto his chest. "It's obvious you don't want to be here, man," he said. "It's your father's idea, I can tell. You're just trying to make him happy, I'm not going to get in the way of that."

Our conversation faded away when dad walked over, ready to usher me back into the truck. He ended the day by buying me dinner, telling me more fraternity stories, and saying me he'd see me again in a few months.

Activities as simple as eating worked differently around him, so I was happy to have dinner with Molly the next day in my wig and workout attire.

"Want to have a movie marathon tonight?" she asked while trying to scoop up Ramen with a cracked, plastic spoon. We were both too tired from our trip to the gym to walk across the cafeteria for a new one. "We should do black and white films this time. I bought boxed wine, so we can feel all classy."

"How about tomorrow? Jim's waiting for me tonight."

She spilt juice down her shirt, and a noodle landed in her cleavage. "You're going back there? But your dad's gone."

"He'll come back one day asking to see the house and all my douchebag frat buddies. He'll know if I don't do it." I used my fake, pointed nails to pick the noodle off of her. "And while this has nothing to do with anything, there's a delicious guy there I'd like to bang."

She laughed, but quickly removed her smile. "Well, I still don't approve. The guys there are trouble. If you get involved with them, I'm just going to have to go down there to save your ass."

She spent the rest of the day trying to convince me to come over by texting me pictures of the red wine we could be chugging and the sexy celebrities we could be ogling. As tempting as the offer seemed, Brian might be the guy who'd finally accept me. I could always get drunk the next day. For now, I would chase after love. Or at least sex.

When I arrived at the house, I knocked on the door the way my dad did, with the right number of knocks and pauses. Anderson answered, but it took me a few seconds to recognize him with a shaved face. Still not attractive, but he was getting there.

"Is John around?" I asked.

"Upstairs. Third door on the left," he said, focused on my smooth legs. "Unless you'd rather go to my room."

"Our kiss wasn't enough for you?"

His eyes wrinkled in confusion, then widened in realization. "Oh, what'd they make you dress up as a girl? Didn't make me do that yet."

I ignored him, and trotted up the stairs to find John. Each door on the second floor held a whiteboard on it with bright blue tally marks. When Molly hooked up with Jim, she asked him what it meant, and he claimed each mark represented a good deed he'd completed that month. Later, she found out that they actually stood for how many chicks he banged. When I reached John's door, I popped the marker out of its holder and added a fresh line to the end of his tally. A sort of good luck charm.

His door swung open after one hard knock, so I walked in and said, "I'm here."

He sat on his bed, one arm propping up his head. The other held a notebook with curse words scratched into the cover. His gaze traveled from the pages to my open toed pumps to my jean shorts to my sleeveless shirt. "Here for some fun?" he asked, tossing the book onto a cluttered nightstand.

I kicked back my foot to remove my heels. "If you're up for it."

"Get over here, then, gorgeous."

I paused before sauntering over. "You do realize I'm Sh—

"You do realize I don't care about your name, or your story, or about anything other than the fact that I want you here. Now get in this bed."

He seemed different than the previous day, more blunt and animalistic, but whom was I to talk about change? I climbed onto the bed, and lay on my side facing him. He did the same, cupping my neck in his hand to pull me closer. Our lips touched as my hand slid down his chest, plucked the hem of his shirt, and lifted it. He inched away to pull it over his head, then resumed our make-out. I felt my body heat rise as his tongue slipped into my mouth, twisting together with mine. I bit down on his lower lip, tugging as I looked into his vivid eyes.

I hesitated when I heard people bustling around downstairs, but his lips glided across my neck, bringing me back into the moment. I traced my fingers over the tattoos that swirled over his soft skin, and tried to control my rapid breathing. I'd been with men before, but we'd never gone farther than second base. Sure, I'd slept with a handful of women, but never had a good experience with them. I only did it to see if it felt right, but it never did.

But John? He felt right.

I slipped a hand under his jeans, but the noise from downstairs kept growing until I could barely hear his moans. In between pecks, I asked, "Why is it so damn loud?"

"Well, another pool party's about to start." He ran his fingers up my outer thigh. "Isn't that why you're here?"

My head twisted. "No. I… I'm here for the initiation."

His hands stopped moving against my skin.

"Oh, um, it's Sherrie. Sherlock. We met yesterday. You told me to ask for you. I thought you realized—"

His hands jumped off of me, and he raised them in the air like he was surrendering. "Whoa. I didn't… Damn it. What?"

"I'm sorry I didn't make it clearer, but does it bother you that much?" I brushed a clump of hair away from his eyes. "I mean, things were getting pretty hot."

"No. I mean, yeah, it was nice. But I can't. I don't mean to be—I just can't."

He leapt out of bed, threw on his shirt, and tossed me my shoes. "I'm sorry, you know?" he said. But as I walked down the stairs, I heard him say to a group of fellow frat boys, "He's a dude. We almost… he tried to sleep with me. I don't know."

I ran to the foot of the stairs, heels in my hand, and was trapped between dozens of bikini clad bodies. Molly was one of them, except she had on a sundress, so she stuck out. I rushed right over to her, my relief of seeing a familiar face winning out over my frustration of her coming to rescue me.

"What happened?" she asked, holding onto both of my arms. "What did he do?"

I wiped away the tears that sprung somewhere between the steps and the crowd. "I got to make-out with him. He wasn't a very good kisser, so I had to get out of there."

"I'm the one you don't have to lie to, remember? Who do I have to kill? Point me in the direction and I'll get 'em good."

"He said she wasn't in a bathing suit. Just look for—hey, right there! Gotta be one of them." The owner of the voice shoved me from behind, knocking the heels out of my hands and my body onto the wooden floor. A foot collided with my ribs, and tan hands wrapped a rope around my wrist, itchy and tight against my skin.

When the man pulled me up, I staggered to remain standing, my breath clipped. Through blurred eyes, I saw another man, pale and hefty, tying up Molly. Before I could scream, someone stuffed a towel into my mouth.

I tried to kick behind me, to collide with a knee or groin or any sensitive area, but was lifted into the air and transported outside. The pool, surrounded by cement, had inflatable palm trees growing out of it. Multiple bars surrounded the area, with massive kegs and funnels littered around the yard. People danced, ate, and vomited in every corner. As busy as it was, no one paid attention to us. They were lost in their drunken wonderland.

The two strangers pushed us onto the concrete surrounding the pool, and blood plunged out of my newly cracked knees.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jim asked, observing the brutality from a barstool. "Leave the girls alone."

"She's a—he's a damn queer," the pale one said, looking between Molly and me, unsure of which of us it actually was. "He tried to stick his dick in John."

"That's John's issue, not yours."

"Well, he's too nice to do shit."

"If you hurt anyone at this damn party, you're out of the frat," Jim said, and walked back into the hall of the house.

But he underestimated his power. The men ignored his warning, and one elbowed Molly between the shoulder blades.

I screamed out sentences they couldn't understand, words that got stuck between my teeth and the towel. _Let her go. It's me. Just leave her alone._

"Pull up their shirts." The tan one said. "See which one's the dude."

Molly managed to push the towel out of her mouth, spit clumps of fuzz into the pool, and say, "If you can't tell without groping us, you shouldn't care."

"If you're the chick, you have nothing to worry about." He rested his hands on her hips, and brought them up toward her chest, but she wiggled away.

"Why does it matter?" She sobbed during every pause. "Why do you care?"

"She doesn't want us to touch her. Gotta be her."

My screams intensified as they slammed her head into the water, banging her forehead against the wall of the pool. Waves of blood rose to the surface, and it kept coming after they pushed her entire body inside. The ropes were tight against her wrist, disabling her from saving herself. I tried to hop in after her, but several hands held me back.

Bubbles shot from her mouth and broke on the surface, the artifacts of her dying screams. The drunks bobbing in the water treated her like a shark, like a villain that threatened them instead of hero that needed saving. They all swam away from her, climbed out of the pool, and shrieked about how ghastly she looked.

No one pulled her out of the water. No one touched her. No one cared.

Tears dropped from my puffy eyes, giving me a small dose of Molly's pain. I felt the thin streaks of water curl down my cheeks, and imaged what it would feel like for the sensation to multiply, for the water to cover every limb, every pore, suffocating my dreams and slaughtering my future.

I wondered if she died hating me, if she wished that I would've been the one thrown into the pool like a monster destined to be destroyed. Did she regret the day we met—when the strap on her sandals broke, so I pulled a spare pair of heels from my bag? Did she regret slipping them on and promising to pay me back by buying me lunch? Did she regret our movie nights, regret finding out my true gender, regret wasting her time with me?

The thoughts sounded selfish, so I pushed my mind back to her, and what a waste life was. She'd never get her a degree or her dream job, even after years of schooling. The boy she had a crush on wouldn't get the chance to ask her out, let alone marry her. And I would never again feel the delight of hugging her, the comfort of squeezing her soft waist, unless I wrapped my arms around a cold corpse in a coffin.

It was a mistake, though. John's mistake. His frat friends' mistake. My chromosome's mistake.

"What the hell happened here?"

Sirens replaced the rap music contaminating the air, and a handful of cops frightened away the pissed off partygoers. Jim had called them. They aimed to desert the place, but once they realized the party scene declined into a crime scene, they rounded up as many guests as they could.

Spotting me bound and bloody, two of them rushed toward my hunched body while another two tried to fish out Molly. When they untied me, I gripped my wig, yanked it, and catapulted the curls into the water. The cops flung comments at me, but I ignored them. My trembling hands moved toward my mouth to remove the gag, dipped it into the water, and used it to remove my make-up.

After hours of questioning, I limped back home, my knees bandaged and calves shaking. I heard the squeak of sneakers and the crunch of branches, but I didn't acknowledge the person trailing me until I reached my dorm room door.

After I opened it, and shuffled inside, I said, "If you're hoping to kill me, you can save yourself the jail time. I have plenty of pills for a nice, clean suicide."

"Ah, man, don't talk like that," the voice said, getting closer with each word. I turned around right as John closed the door behind him. A plastic bag dangled from his wrist. "I didn't want… She was cool, I heard. Jim slept with her, but he actually gave her money for a cab and some breakfast the next morning. Said she was a nice girl, that she deserved that much. Didn't deserve this, though."

I blinked, waiting for him to disappear.

"I don't mean… It's not like it should've been you. You're cool, too," he said with his hands clasped over his head. He shifted as he spoke, his weight leaning on one leg, then the other. "You just surprised me. You can't do that, man."

I crossed my arms to grab the hem of my shirt, and lifted it over my head. A girly movement, but it revealed my flat chest. "Get the hell out."

"Right, sorry, it's not your fault. I should've never told those guys. They always act up."

"Act up?" I repeated, my miniscule muscles tightening. "Murdering someone is acting up? They didn't throw a drink in our face or tie us to a flagpole. They killed her."

"Yeah, they went too far. I know that."

"Do you?" I swatted at him with each word, pounding my fist against his collarbone. "You'll kiss other men for initiation, as cheap entertainment, but not when you actually feel something? You'll bang girls, but when one is beat up and drowned, you'll just let it happen? Well, fuck you, and your frat brothers. They're all going to hell."

I shoved him against the wall, and his hands shot up to protect his face. The swift movement caused his bag to tumble to the floor. He never tied it shut, so the contents spilt out: a pile of black curls.

"That's trash," I said, taking tiny steps back.

"I'll pay for a new one if you can't, like, dry clean it."

"Get it out of here."

He crouched to grab the wig, leaning on one knee as if he was ready to propose. He fluffed it as best as he could, and held it up to me, saying, "You're brave as fuck, show it. Molly did."

"Out," I repeated. My lips collided, pressing together tightly to hold back the tears.

A week later, at the funeral, I stood in front of a handful of friends mixed with hundreds of strangers. Every media outlet in the state ran the story of the wrongful murder, the expulsions, and the frat house being boarded up. I wondered how many people in the crowd knew Molly as a person, and not just a face in a paper.

The collection of mourners watched me, more interested than upset, as I fidgeted with my sleeves. A crumpled paper sat on the podium, but I refused to look at it. "I wrote this speech seven times, and threw it out seven times, because every time I wrote something, it ended up being all about me. But then I thought—to hell with it. There's no reason to tell the one story about Molly everyone here already knows. There's no reason to talk about how beautiful of a person she was, or how much I'm going to miss her. You all know that, without me telling you. So I'm going to talk about me." I smoothed down a chunk of my curls, glancing down at my flowing skirt that reached past my ankles. "The first day I wore heels and a dress in public was the day I met Molly. I'd just moved into my dorm, classes didn't even start yet, and I figured I could give it a test run. So, anyway, we met, we became friends, and after a few bottles of wine, I ended up telling her the truth about me. It wasn't because of the alcohol, though. I never trusted anyone the way I trusted her. When you talked to her, she just had this look on her face… like she was absorbing every word, like she actually gave a shit. And she knew about my body, and she embraced my looks, even when I couldn't." My eyes tightened, and water dropped out. "There are times when I've wanted to die, especially this past week. But my best friend was killed for me, so I'll live for her."

I could've spoken about her for hours, but my emotions forced me to step back into the crowd. I took a seat between Molly's parents and a journalist scribbling into a notepad. I twisted my neck to see what words were written, but my tears eclipsed my vision, so I resumed focus on the front of the room. A priest led a prayer, told us that Molly was in a better place, and allowed the ushers to carry her coffin outside. I followed them, ready to step into the car that would transport us to the graveyard, but a hand on my shoulder slowed me down.

"Sherlock," dad's voice said. He had on the same suit he wore for my initiation. "I found out on television. No missed calls. No emails. I wouldn't have even known."

I imagined him sprinting on a treadmill, water bottle halfway to his mouth, when the TV blurted out my name and story. I assumed he'd already heard what happened, so I left my cell in my drawer. He'd ignore my calls, anyway.

"Is this really where we need to talk?" I asked. "Right here?"

"You put it off for long enough, don't you think?"

I felt my fake lashes slipping off, my mascara trickling down my skin. "You want to know why I didn't call you? Because you already lost your wife. Didn't want you to know you lost your son, too."

His face twisted, as if he was deciding whether to speak or cry. He lifted a clenched fist, and I wondered if he'd resort to violence after everything that happened. Instead, he uncurled his fingers to reveal an emerald necklace pressed against his palm. Mom's necklace.

"It'll look better on you than my truck," he said.

"So you're…" My tongue felt heavy in my mouth. "You don't care?"

His eyes traveled from my hair to my heels, looking curious, but not critical. "Turn around," he said, and helped me clasp the jewelry around my perfumed neck.

_**I know a lot of the story is out of character, but I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless!**_


End file.
